


Oh, I'm Ready For It

by ShippingEverything



Series: i will sing the song of Purple Summer [2]
Category: Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Gen, Otto is Filipino like its not overt but he Just Is, Otto is their record company assigned agent, also this is sort of a 5+1 but in the worst way, hes trying his best (probably)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2019-08-21 22:33:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16585529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShippingEverything/pseuds/ShippingEverything
Summary: Otto's always believed that any job worth doing is worth doing right, which means that he's going to meet with every band in his care, even if he was warned about them.Or: Otto Lammermeier meets Purple Summer





	1. Ilse

**Author's Note:**

> Me, juggling three multichaps: could a depressed person do this?
> 
> Title from Cobra Starship's _Bring It [Snakes On A Plane]_

Otto Lammermeier is a newly hired agent for Muse Records, working as liaison between a few bands and the higher-ups. The last guy, who’d retired, had laughed hysterically when Otto had asked for advice and offered only a cryptic _Good luck_.

Groble’s assistant had been more helpful, telling him that most of his bands weren’t anything to worry about, but that he should keep an eye on Purple Summer. He nodded at the time, taking her advice and storing it in the back of his head. Purple Summer is a band that his teenage sister likes, pop-y but also mad at the world, all yelling and neon and catchy beats; Otto prefers indie, honestly, and doesn't put much thought into the band until Ilse Neumann emails him to meet in person.

By now, he’s met with the managers of every other band under his charge and he wouldn't have reason to think that Ilse Neumann will be any different, but still, the warning rings in his ears as he waits for Neumann to arrive to their meeting.

“Mr, Lammermeier, Ms. Neumann is here,” His assistant says, and he gives her the signal to send her in. Ilse Neumann is 5’, at the most, but she walks like she takes up much more space than that. Her dark hair is a neat pixie cut and her pantsuit is crisp.

“I've been looking forward to this meeting, Ms. Neumann,” Otto says, offering his hand to her. Her handshake is tight, a quick one-two shake and release, enough to be civil and to draw a line at _just_ professional.

“As have I, but really,” Ilse says, smile sharp and hooded eyes sharper, “There's no need for formality. Ilse works just fine.”

Otto pauses. Maybe Otto is still paranoid from Groble, but something in this seems like a trap, seems like Ilse is testing him. Still, he pushes down his uncertainty and says, “You'll have to agree to call me Otto, then.”

Ilse doesn't smile -- or, rather, she doesn't _stop_ smiling that vaguely threatening but generally benign smile she's had since she walked in -- but she does nod. They talk shop for nearly an hour, planning studio time and albums and tours. It's so very like every other meeting Otto's had that he almost feels faint with relief. _All that worry and adrenaline for what?_ He asks himself as Ilse describes a pop-up she'd like the band to participate in. _Ilse Neumann is perfectly normal and there's nothing scary about Purple Summer_. It's only when Ilse has stood to leave, saying something absently about letting the band members meet Otto as well, that Otto even brings his original fears back up.

“You know, I was warned about your band,” He laughs, as though he's always found the notion ridiculous, “Mr. Groble was certainly afraid of you all. I can’t imagine why though.”

Ilse's smile drops into a forcibly neutral expression. When she speaks, there's no malice in her tone but Otto can see distaste flash in her eyes. “Mr. Groble was _many_ things, but a good fit for my band was not one of them.”

“So, I don't have to be worried about Purple Summer?” He asks carefully, almost nervously. Ilse scoffs.

“They’re a bunch of idiots masquerading as functioning humans. But…” Ilse pauses and considers Otto for a moment. She seems to decide something because she nods and continues, “Sometimes when you put a bunch of misfits together, you get a family.”

Otto lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding “Thank you-”

“Then again,” Ilse interrupts, breaking into a grin that’s razor-edged and feral and _absolutely terrifying_ , “ _Sometimes_ you just get a group of _assholes_.”

Otto's not sure what his face looks like, in the face of this, but it's enough to make Ilse laugh. She turns around, truly leaving as Otto sits stupefied. As she opens the door, she says, over her shoulder, “They're not that scary. You'll see when you meet them.”

Otto pales at the reminder and nods, despite Ilse being unable to see him. “Right. It was lovely meeting you, Ilse.”

Ilse lifts a hand above her head in a wave as she leaves. As soon as the door closes, Otto gently presses his forehead into his desk, breathing deeply. He's not sure that he's ever gone from feeling secure and safe to feeling shaken and nervous so quickly in his _life_ , not even when he was a teenager. _Maybe the assistant was wrong about the band_ , he thinks, _But she_ really _should've warned me about the manager_.


	2. Thea

After Ilse’s parting blow, Otto’s not quite sure what to expect when he meets the band members. He definitely doesn’t expect Ilse to just send them in, one by one, without her supervision. And yet, here Thea is, with her hair pulled back and the natural tilt of her eyes accented by sharp eyeliner, sitting in front of his desk and engaging him in a staring contest that he never really wanted. 

Thea stares him down for a solid minute. His eyes burn, and he can't stop himself from blinking first. Something like satisfaction flashes over Thea’s face before she hardens it back into a scowl. _She’s pretty, in a sharp sort of way_ , Otto can’t stop himself from thinking. He mentally grimaces at his own unprofessionalism, and clears his throat. “Thea, it’s nice to meet you.”

Thea raises an eyebrow. “You’re using my name.”

It’s not a question, but Otto feels compelled to answer. “You only use your given name, right? Or is that only on the professional stage? Would you rather I called you Miss-”

“No,” Thea cuts him off sharply. Otto shuts his mouth. He realizes that it’s mildly ridiculous that he’s this intimidated by a woman who’s not only his employee, but also a _guest_ in _his_ office. “Just Thea is fine. The last guy didn’t seem to get that.”

Otto nods, though he’s a bit confused. None of the other groups seemed to have a problem with Reiner Groble… but then, Groble’s secretary didn’t warn Otto about any of the other groups; there was bound to be some history there. 

“Well, I pride myself on remembering things that are important to my clients,” Otto settles on, instead of any of the many questions he could think of about that.

Thea narrows her eyes at him and doesn’t speak for another minute. Otto stays silent as well, staring back and trying to pretend that he’s neither intimidated by nor attracted to her. 

“Are you going to lecture me about social media use or the Kissing Crusade?”

“Of course not,” Otto says, his brow furrowing. He’s heard of her Kissing Crusade, but it doesn’t seem to be particularly _his_ business. “I trust your manager to deal with that.”

Thea nods, then stands and walks out. Otto blinks at the door for a moment before pulling up his email. 

_Ilse_ , He types, _I’ve just met with Thea. We spoke for a short time before she left rather abruptly. I hope that I didn’t offend her in any way and wish for you to pass on my apologies if I did._ Ilse replies within the hour, a quick note that merely says, _You passed her inspection_.

Otto won’t admit this to anyone, but he sighs in relief at the news

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk if this got through in Party Queens but the ideal aesthetic for thea is sharp outside, soft inside, and otto only gets to see the sharp part and he's intimidated and attracted to it


	3. Hanschen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen. its been a rough few months. 
> 
> pls enjoy!

Hanschen Rilow is sitting in front of Otto’s desk and texting when Otto enters his office after a meeting. Otto’s secretary had told him that Hanschen was in there, that he wouldn’t take no for an answer and calling his manager about it had just resulted in Ilse cackling down the phone line, but he’s still a little shocked by how casual Hanschen looks here.

“Hello,” Otto says, and Hanschen’s dark eyes snap up. He’s somehow managing to look down on Otto despite how 1. Otto is standing and Hanschen is sitting, and 2. Hanschen is shorter than Otto by nearly half a foot. 

“Hello,” Hanschen drawls, “Nice to meet you.”

Otto moves behind his desk, stopping to open the blinds before he sits down. As he opens them, Hanschen speaks. 

“Oh, you’re pulling them up?”

Otto stops, suddenly. He looks over his shoulder, “If you don’t mind the sun. It’s still early enough that it shouldn’t be in your eyes, and I like the view.”

“I don’t care either way,” Hanschen says, but the way he tilts his head just slightly indicates more interest than his voice does. “It _is_ your office, after all.”

Otto opens the shades the rest of the way, inexplicably nervous, before sitting down and folding his hands atop the desk. “Hanschen-”

“Hans,” Hanschen cuts Otto off. “I go by Hans, professionally, Mr. Lammermeier. Only my friends call me Hanschen.”

 _We’re not friends_ , Hanschen doesn’t say, but Otto hears it all the same. Otto nods. “Hans, then. It’s wonderful to meet you, Hans, you can call me Otto if you’d like. I understand that my predecessor had little relationship with his artists, but I’ve always thought that it’s important to know the people you work with and I hope we can have a fruitful relationship.”

“Ilse gave me the spiel, Mr. Lammermeier.” The use of his last name is pointed, but Hanschen doesn’t look nearly as bored with Otto as his tone would suggest. his curls catch the light as his eyes narrow slightly. “Do you really mean all that?”

“I wouldn’t say it otherwise,” Otto says. He wouldn’t say that _everything_ he says is genuine -- he does, after all, work for a record company -- but he does try and keep his honesty, when he can. 

Hanschen looks Otto over, not quite questioningly, but he still looks more slightly open than he did a second ago. After half a minute of silence, he says, “I’m engaged.”

Otto blinks. Then blinks again. “I… did not know that”

“It’s not common knowledge. Our fans know that I have a significant other, they know that he’s a man and lives in the northwest, and the more dedicated ones have even puzzled out that he’s in grad school, but our engagement…” Hanschen trails off, lifting his left hand onto the desk. “I don’t wear the ring every day, and even then it’s easy to miss.”

Otto’s seen pictures of Purple Summer onstage, seen the bulky scene style they adopt, seen the gleam of trashy jewelry nearly dripping off of all of them. Hanschen wears several rings on his hand, but one of them is _different_ , nothing like the rest of his outfit and yet still perfect for him; it’s thin and silver, with an engraved pattern and a dark inset jewel, standing out and yet hiding in plain sight among the other loud pieces Hanschen wears.

“I’m a private person, Mr. Lammermeier. Surely you’ve realized by now that Mr. Groble didn’t know I was engaged,” Hanschen says, and he’s gesturing with his hand now, the jewel catching light in a way that the fake jewelry doesn’t, “And I don’t want you to get the wrong idea; I don’t intend to sit in your office and share life stories, I don’t want to become your friend. I don’t particularly care whether you like me or not.”

 _But you’re trusting me with this_ , Otto thinks. He rolls his lips, nods. He says, “I understand.” 

“Good.” Hanschen stands up. “For what it’s worth, I think you’ll do a much better job than your predecessor. Ilse and Thea are impressed, at the least.”

Otto’s eyebrows raise at the casually thrown praise. It’s not until Hanschen has a hand on the door that he manages to piece together how to ask the question on his mind. “Why did you tell me? If you don’t mind me asking, that is.”

Hanschen doesn’t turn around, but the line of his shoulders changes slightly. “Mr. Groble used to keep the shades down,” He says simply, and slides out.

Otto’s left puzzling what that means for the rest of the day. It’s not until he’s closing the blinds in preparation for going home that evening that he actually looks out the window and sees the giant rainbow mural across the street, the park nearby, the barbeques starting up atop the closest apartment buildings; they’re normal things, part of the fingerprint of the city. He’d vaguely noticed it before, in an _Oh, how nice_ way, but he hadn’t thought it was anything significant. _Then again_ , He thinks as he leaves, remembering Reiner Groble’s tightly drawn face and serious demeanor, the way he’d curled his lip at Otto, _Maybe it didn’t need to be anything dramatic_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i moved last month and just started a new 9-6 job so like, writing time has been Cut, but i Am going to finish this fic, alright? it was part of my new years resolutions


	4. Georg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi I'm squid and I will Eventually finish most fics I start. Eventually

“Hi, Otto Lammermeier, right?”

Otto jerks in surprise. He’s working on his laptop in a cafe near his workplace because he'd needed to get some air, and he certainly didn’t expect to be caught by someone who knows him. He looks up ( _and up,_ god _, this guy is tall_ ) and nearly has to double take.

The man looking down at his table isn't anyone Otto's met before. He has pale skin, brown eyes, and curly shoulder length brown hair; Otto thinks that he should, for all extents and purposes, find the man to be completely average, but Otto still finds himself looking the man up and down, at his lithe figure, skinny jeans, and expertly lined eyes. Otto doesn't think of himself as particularly noticeable, especially not enough that a guy like _this_ would notice him.

“Yeah, that's me. Who's asking?” Otto says, two-thirds cautious and one-third flirty. Sue him, he's seen romcoms before. He knows how meet-cutes work.

The man gestures to the chair across from Otto and Otto nods. As he sits down, he says, “Georg Zirschnitz.”

The name sounds familiar, but not too much so, like it's a name he's absently read once or twice. Otto wonders if the man's a model, maybe, or an actor; if Otto's seen his name on billboards or in credits. “Well, George Zirschnitz, could I ask how you know who _I_ am? I'm a little new to town to get recognized in a coffee shop.”

“We have a mutual friend who told me to keep an eye out for you.”

“Do we? I wouldn’t expect that,” Otto says, raising an eyebrow. He looks Georg over again, making it clear this time that he's looking, then leans in and says, sotto voice, “I wouldn't think we run in the same circles, you seem a bit... _out of my league_ , so to say.”

Georg leans back and opens and closes his mouth twice, blinking in shock. “You're… Flirting with me.”

Otto withdraws as well, shrugging sheepishly. “I was. I can stop, if you'd like.”

“No- or, yes- I mean,” Georg takes a breath, centering himself. “Sorry, I meant to say that I'm flattered, but straight, first of all, and also that I've just realized that you don't know who I am. That makes this conversation a little unfair.”

“Should I know you?” Otto asks, all his caution returning. “Your name sounds familiar but-”

“Let's just start this over,” Georg cuts in, sticking a hand out for a handshake. “Nice to meet you, I'm Georg Zirschnitz and I play keyboard for Purple Summer.”

Otto's mouth drops open as he stares in horror at Georg. He feels the blood drain from his face and then come rushing back in an embarrassed blush. “Oh my god, I am _so_ sorry.”

“Really, it's fine,” Georg tries to wave off, “I was the one who assumed-”

“I'm usually much more professional than this.”

“No, seriously, it's okay-”

“I just can't believe that I'd not only forget a client but then hit on them so blatantly, I'm-”

“Otto,” Georg says, cutting Otto firmly off. He looks a bit flustered as well but he's still looking Otto in the eyes, still smiling slightly. “It's fine. I came up to you in a cafe without really thinking about it and, like I said, it was _extremely_ flattering.”

Otto grimaces. “I'm still incredibly sorry.”

“And I gladly and sincerely accept your apology,” Georg says, “Really, I wanted to meet you to get an impression on how you'd deal with being the contact point for the ‘gay pop punk band’ but, uh, guess you won't have any problems with _that_.”

Otto flushes again. “I don’t have any problems with my majority straight groups either.”

“I wouldn't think so,” Georg responds, laughing. “You've been so _complimentary_ to me.”

He's joking, and Otto _knows_ he's joking, but Otto still feels a hot rush of shame at the words. He's one of the youngest liaisons in the building, not to mention his race and sexuality. Not only does he constantly have to prove himself to his coworkers, but he also doesn't want to become one of those agents that let's his hands linger a bit too long, that calls all his clients _sweetheart_ and _honey_. “Listen, I know you said it's fine but I still feel bad. I'm not that sort of man. Let me buy you a coffee, please.”

George raises an eyebrow. “I thought you said you were going to _stop_ hitting on me.”

“I-” Otto's eyes widen, “I didn't mean it like-”

“I know you didn't,” Georg says, winking and cutting through Otto's growing panic. Georg uses a hand to push his hair behind an ear and stands, earnestly grinning down at Otto. “Seriously, we're good. And I only came in because I saw you from the window, I really don't like caffeine.”

Otto nods, still flustered and more than a bit of a wreck on the inside. _This band_ , He thinks, _Is going to give me a conniption_.

“Besides,” Georg says as he leaves, smirking over his shoulder, “I'm much more of a dinner-and-movie guy, anyway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disaster bi otto not being able to recognize one of his clients is so Valid
> 
> My notes for georg's sexuality are "straight (???)" so we'll see w that ig. Also Georg's faceclaim for this series is matt clavane, in case you wanted to understand Otto's turmoil


	5. Moritz

Moritz Stiefel calls before he shows up in Otto’s office, which is a welcome surprise.

“Uh, is this Otto Lammermeier?” A shaky voice asks over the phone. Otto thinks that it’s a good thing that he was told by his secretary that it’s Moritz Stiefel -- _“From that Purple Summer band. He’s called thrice today but refused to just leave a message with me”_ \-- because otherwise he never would’ve connected the voice on the phone to the seemingly confident bassist he’d seen in their music videos.

“Yes, it is. Moritz Stiefel, right?”

“Right. I was just calling to ask if, um, if I could make an appointment?” Moritz says, then rushes on, nervously, “I mean, obviously, I can, I talked to your secretary earlier, but my manager wa-wa- uh, sorry, she requested that I meet with you? Would that be okay?”

“That sounds fine, when would you like to come by?” Otto asks, pulling up his calendar.

“Now, if that’s possible? I’m kind of in the lobby right now, actually.”

“You’re-” Otto furrows his eyebrows, frowning. “My secretary said you called earlier as well, have you been in the lobby all day?”

Moritz takes a beat too long to respond, which is answer enough for Otto.

“Come on up,” Otto says, sending an email to change the time of an upcoming meeting and another telling his secretary to hold his calls. “And, for future reference, you can always wait up here instead of in the main lobby; that way I’ll know you’re here as soon as I get out of my meetings.”

Moritz mutters his thanks and hangs up, leaving Otto to tidy up his office a bit -- his desk is really a mess, contracts and memos and files everywhere -- and wonder why in the world Moritz had been waiting in the _lobby_ for _several_ _hours_.

“ _Musicians_ ,” He mutters incredulously. His secretary lets Moritz in and Otto, somehow, is even more shocked by Moritz’s casual clothing then he was by Moritz’s voice. In the videos Otto watched, Moritz Stiefel always had his hair spiked up, gelled within an inch of its life; he wore thick eyeliner and tight leather and lots of jangling metal. Right now, Moritz’s hair is loose and curled, and he’s wearing a pale blue sweatshirt that dwarfs his body and a pair of sweatpants. It’s obvious, in this lighting, that the dark eye makeup he wears for his stage persona is to hide equally dark bags planted firmly under each eye.

 _He doesn’t look like a up-and-coming pop punk bassist_ , Otto thinks, blindsided by the dissonance, _he doesn’t even look like he belongs in this_ building. Everyone else that Otto’s met had at least sort of looked the eccentric musician part but Moritz looks more ready to walk into a college lecture than onto a stage.

“It's nice to finally meet you.” Otto says, instead of voicing any of those thoughts.

“I'm sorry, Ilse asked me to meet you first but I-” Moritz cuts off from his breakneck pace of speaking, flushing. “Got nervous, I guess. And then I w- uh, got concerned that if I didn't stay here today, I’d chicken out, so. Here we are.”

“Well, I'm glad to finally see you. I meant what I said about next time.”

“The lobby secretary said-”

“The lobby secretary isn't exactly in charge of me,” Otto says wryly. “I'll let him know I want my clients to wait up here, especially if they've been there for _over two hours_ , christ.”

Otto finishes his sentence muttering to himself more than anything, shaking his head at the ground, but when he looks up Moritz is staring at him, baffled. Something about the look, about how Moritz has gone from fidgeting to stockstill, about how _all_ of them have done it, in their own ways, gets to him in that moment. Before Moritz can respond, Otto starts talking again.

“It’s only your band that looks at me like that, you know. Everyone else makes the occasional comment about how I’m ‘nicer’ than Mr. Groble, but everyone from Purple Summer, the band I was _warned about_ looks like I spouted tentacles and wings when I do something even vaguely decent,” Otto says, frustration with the lobby secretary and these incredulous looks and this _whole situation_ boiling over into pacing and overdramatic gesturing. “How awful was Mr. Groble to you guys that a little human decency blindsides you like that?”

Moritz is quiet after Otto’s outburst; long enough for Otto to take a breath and calm down and realize that he’s being confrontational and reactionary and _unprofessional_ towards a client he’s just met, long enough for Otto to build himself up to apologizing, before Moritz says, “He asked them to replace me, w-wa-when we first started out… I have anxiety, in case you couldn’t guess, and the whole,” Moritz pauses gesturing at his mouth. “Stutter thing. He thought it wasn’t a good image for a band… for _our_ band.”

Otto leans back, recoiling like he’s been hit. “He said that to you? And kept his job?”

“No, he, uh, was smarter than that, he just implied it,” Moritz says, shrugging. “Ilse filed a report, same as she did last year for the stuff he said to Thea, but nothing happened.”

Otto puts a hand over his eyes, squeezing at each temple with thumb and middle finger. He takes a deep breath and sighs. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

“It’s fine. It’s not your fault, and he’s gone anyway.”

“Still, your record company shouldn’t fail you like that, and neither should your agent.” Otto sighs again, weary. “I’m sorry on his behalf.”

Moritz hums softly and when Otto looks at him, he looks less nervous and more speculative. “Hanschen said you were okay, but… I mean, not to say that I didn’t believe him, because Hanschen has a pretty good sense for that sort of stuff, but I didn’t think you’d be like… _this_.”

Otto still isn’t exactly sure what that means, but he shrugs anyway. “I’m just trying to do the best job possible. Now, if you don’t mind, I do actually have some questions about how I can better serve you, regarding the anxiety thing. I have a system set up with one of my other clients, and I think you might be interested in it as well.”

Otto roots through a drawer in his desk and pulls out the plan he made with another band, and Moritz’s eyes light up at the sight of it. For the rest of their meeting they talk shop, true liaison stuff that Otto probably could and should have talked about with Ilse, but it feels important that he ask Moritz himself about it. When Moritz leaves, it’s with a smile on his face, and Otto’s able to place him a bit better as the grinning bassist from the videos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes this fic is just an excuse to write a bunch of "people are shocked that otto is kind and he doesnt understand why" snippets and no i wont apologize. also next and final chapter is, obviously, melchior and then i think i'll post some Character Drabbles that i've had done for this verse for a while, then maybe a theanna piece, then tbh who knows


	6. Melchior

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if record companies actually have supporters galas but at this point I don't care

Otto’s done this before.

Way back when, before he applied for and got a job that he was only sort of qualified for, before his last office job or the startup before that, Otto worked in an art gallery for three years. He had loved it and, though it had only been a post-college pitstop in his career track, he had been _good_ at it; he loved planning exhibits, working with artists, and schmoozing with donors and buyers.

It was this experience that he’d drawn on most of all when he applied to work for Muse, even if it was a little different when the "art" he was selling was another human who was unpredictable and _also_ in attendance, the same basic principles applied: get dressed to the nines, be charming as hell, and sell your product.

And to sell your product, Otto knows you have to _know_ your product. At least, that’s Otto’s internal justification for how his eyes keep drifting back towards Purple Summer, who are travelling around the party as a tight quintet during Muse’s Supporter's Gala. In his defense, they all stand out; with four of them in different brightly colored suits, they pop against the dresses of some attendees, much less amongst the traditional black suits. It's an easy draw to the eye when all of them are spots of stylish, vivid color -- excepting their frontman, Melchior Gabor, the only one Otto hasn’t formally met yet, but he still manages to break from the monotony with his technicolor pink hair and the velvety fabric of his suit. Even surrounded by his colorful encourage -- Thea in blue, George in crimson, Hanschen in yellow, and Moritz in lime -- he stands out, grinning brightly and laughing loudly.

Otto does his job, because he’s a professional first and foremost, but anytime he has a free moment, whenever he leaves a sponsor or turns to get a drink or even looks up briefly from a conversation, he feels his eyes drift towards that roseate beacon. At one point, he meets Melchior's eye and immediately pinkens at being caught. Melchior’s lips twist in a smirk and he _winks_ at Otto, so Otto has no choice but to look away and pretend that he was never looking at Purple Summer in the first place. He manages it for a decent amount of time, actually, going about his charming and forcing himself to not even glance around, until he feels the unsettling sensation of several pairs of eyes intently on him. Otto pauses mid-drink and, though he considers just ignoring the feeling for a moment, decides to turn to find out who it is.

He has to admit that he’s at least a little surprised to find that it’s _Purple Summer_ that’s staring at him -- or, well, the _majority_ of Purple Summer, because at sometime between Otto’s last look and now, Melchior has disappeared. Otto looks away from their collective gaze and finishes his drink, but he can tell that they’re _still_ staring at him. He heaves a deep, entirely internal sigh, wishing that he could let his shoulders rise and fall the way he wants them too because he _doesn’t get paid enough for this_.

He looks back to Purple Summer, lifts a hand, and waves, trying to use his most charming smile. Moritz and Georg wave back, Moritz enthusiastically and Georg with a smart salute, but Thea shakes her head and Hanschen just laughs.

 _Musicians_ , He thinks, disparagingly, and then turns and nearly jumps out of his skin because Melchior has _materialized_ right beside him. _Holy fuck_ , is what Otto wants to say, but instead he manages a mostly calm “Oh, hello.”

“Hey there,” Melchior says, lips twitching with suppressed mirth in a way that Otto would normally find annoying. “I sing for Purple Summer.”

Otto waits a moment for Melchior to expond, offer his name, _anything_ , but Melchior doesn’t. No, he just keeps looking at Otto beseechingly. Otto holds out a hand, compensating in the absence of Melchior’s manners. “Otto Lammermeier, I represent your group, actually.”

“Is that Lammermeier with an I or a Y?” Melchior asks, ignoring Otto’s handshake to pull out his phone.

Otto, who has literally just watched Melchior quickly and easily type his full name into the address bar, says, “E-I-E-R, and there are three Ms, total,” instead of voicing any of his thoughts, most of which are _What the fuck is happening right now?_

Melchior hums and clicks enter, making a big show of reading the Wikipedia blurb that pops up, even clicking on a few already-purpled links. Otto is… not sure whether this show is for Melchior’s sake of his own.

“Quite the impressive resume, Mr. Lammermeier,” Melchior says, tilting his head in a way that makes his rosy locks glow. Otto is suddenly reminded of orchid mantises, of dart frogs and bright colors. He clears his throat.

“Otto, please, and if you wanted my resume, you could’ve just stopped by my office,” Otto jokes, at a loss for what else to do, “I could always print you a copy.”

Melchior raises his eyebrows, almost frowning. For the first time in the whole conversation, his expression looks real. “Really?”

“I meant it when I said I represent your band,” Otto confirms, “My door's open, unless I already have a meeting.”

Melchior laughs, just a bit, eyebrows still up, the gentle smile pulling at his lips almost bemused. “I’ll have to take you up on that. Actually, could I see your arm?”

Otto offers his arm warily. Still, he lets Melchior tug up the sleeves of his suit jacket and button up, and watches as Melchior pulls a red sharpie out of his pocket and sloppily scrawls his number on the inside of Otto’s arm. He could pull back at any time, tell Melchior that he’s overstepping or just gently rebuff him, but Otto doesn’t, for some reason.

“There! Now you can text me, so I can have your number to ask when a good time to get that resume would be.”

“You could just email me,” Otto says, furrowing his brow at the writing on his arm before pulling his sleeves back down.

“Yeah, I guess,” Melchior shrugs, smiling dazzlingly at Otto, “But this way’s a lot more fun.”

Before Otto can respond, or even begin to unpack all of that _jesus christ_ , Melchior is sauntering his way back through the crowd to his prismatic entourage. Otto takes a deep breath in and lets it out again. Otto resists the urge to shut his eyes, place his head in his hands, and/or yell. _This fucking band_ , He thinks at the moment, and then again every time that night that he remembers that he has _Melchior Gabor’s_ number on his arm like a red-hot brand.

He’s not going to text Melchior, obviously; he probably won’t even call Melchior using his official office phone. No, a message passed through Ilse will work just fine, Otto thinks. He might even give _her_ the resume to give to Melchior.

Still, that doesn’t stop Otto from copying Melchior’s number into his leather-bound address book before he showers and scrubs off the scarlet mark, just in case. Who knows when it could be useful to have a client’s personal number, after all?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done! I got Unexpectedly Attached to Otto and that made this chapter... Difficult. I had (most of) this written before I did the rest of the fic, but had to Change It because the Otto that the rest of Purple Summer met was, shockingly, a totally different character than the Otto I had originally envisioned being reluctantly charmed by Melchior's whole _thing_. To try and get into this chapter more, I wrote a tiny missing scene from Melchior's point of view and [its on my writing tumblr](https://nacreousglowclouds.tumblr.com/post/185591702509/sa-band-au-gala-interlude-the-purpose-of-the)
> 
> Anyway, thank y'all so much for sticking around this far! We did it! I'll see you probably soonish with Another drabble for this 'verse probably, because I really wanna write about this Hanschen

**Author's Note:**

> [Main Tumblr (pldubrahs)](http://www.pldubrahs.tumblr.com) | [Writing Tumblr (nacreousglowclouds)](http://nacreousglowclouds.tumblr.com/) | [Personal Twitter (@squidias)](http://twitter.com/squidias)


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